Singular Irregularity
by TemporarilyAbaft
Summary: FINISHED! Holmes and Watson explore the case of the bank teller, Oliver Benton, who has been threatened to remain silent about certain incongruities at the bank. There are two and a half days to solve the case and keep him alive, but one matter strikes closer to heart than expected. Mannerisms (and one or two sly, geeky references) stem from the Granada-verse and Jeremy Brett.
1. Chapter 1: Case

**Preliminaries**: Hey folks! I started writing this with the intention of exploring one particular aspect of Holmes' character, but as I went, I realized that, to do it properly, I was going to have to send the boys off on an adventure. I actually started with what is now the second chapter, but again, it simply wasn't going to work without some padding. I'm afraid it's going to take away from my initial emphasis, but so it goes.

This has been sorted into the category of the Book canon, but I have to admit, my thoughts were on the Granada-verse. Relationships, phrases, and idiosyncrasies have been synced from Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke's portrayals. You'll also notice that I did not opt to take this from the perspective of Watson writing up a Holmes' case for publication.

Lastly, I suppose I should date this. I settled on some time after 1895. Not quite 1900, but somewhere in between. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the case! And I hope that, at the end of it, I will still have adequately explored what I had first intended and displayed it for you to munch on. Thanks!

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**Chapter One: Case**

"Mr. Oliver Benton?"

The tall man waved an arm gracefully to an armchair facing the window before turning towards the fireplace. The trim, mustached man at the door blinked uncertainly. He caught the sympathetic gaze of a calm but stern faced man seated at a writing desk, who gently nodded.

This was the usual routine of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Despite the reputation for Holmes to be clinical, even bracing, in his demeanor, clients were oftentimes taken aback by their first encounter with him. Watson too, who sometimes illustrated himself a bit too simply than he deserved, found himself on the receiving end of surprised looks. Despite his plain appearance and kind demeanor, there was a hardness in his composure and smile. When people looked closely, they would see the ghost of the soldier and, with an increased sense of wariness, get the feeling that the kindly Doctor was more experienced with the darker things of this world than he initially let on.

It was not for nothing, then, that clients often hesitated at the door of their consulting rooms at Baker Street.

Benton steadied his thoughts and sat inside the offered chair. Holmes turned around again with a pipe in his mouth. "I should hope you do not mind if I smoke?"

The man shook his head absently. Holmes took a moment to light his pipe. Drawing it to flame, he then pulled out his watch. Glancing at it, Holmes spoke once more. "It is a serious matter indeed that has forced you from the bank so early in your shift."

Benton stiffened, eyes growing wide. "H-how? How did –"

Holmes cut him off with an amused wave of his hand. From the writing desk came a tired sigh. "It is of no matter, my man. Your clothes and the note you sent to me sometime around noon indicate your profession. I have made it a concern of mine to be able to identify certain particulars in parchment and from where they might be acquired. Whatever occurred to agitate you – for I do see your agitation written clearly in the scrabbling of your shirt cuffs and the trembling of your fingers – must have become apparent to you at the start of your shift, for I see the remainder of your appearance quite maintained and polished. It is now only—" he glanced at his watch again, pocketing it away now in satisfaction, "exactly thirty-seven minutes past two o'clock. Quite odd hours for an ordinary working shift, are they not?"

Watson sighed once more as he observed the steadily paling features of the man before him. "Holmes," he admonished lightly. The taller man raised an eyebrow at the reprimand, but took the hint. Watson smoothly continued the conversation. "Has Holmes accurately read your condition, Mr. Benton?"

The man sat straighter, trying to regain control of his nerves. Just as Holmes had described, Watson noted the man's hands tugging at the cuffs of his shirt. "Yes, actually, he has, Doctor Watson. It's nice to meet you, by the way, after all I've read in the Strand." It was Holmes' turn to heave a tired sigh. Watson's publications were a matter of continued debate between the two men. "Mr. Holmes deduced it soundly. I've been a teller at the bank for only a year and a quarter now. This afternoon, I received a most villainous and singular t-threat on my l-life." From the pocket of his waistcoat, the man procured a folded piece of paper. This he placed in Sherlock's outstretched hand. The detective unfolded it and read in silence.

"Quite melodramatic, don't you suppose?" Holmes said finally, brow furrowed. "It is quite lengthy, Watson." He handed the letter over to the doctor.

_Mr. Oliver Benton,_

_It has come to mine and my subordinates' attention that you have located certain numerical anomalies in the bank documents charged to your care. I strongly urge you to forget them, for the sake of your health. _

_My position is a delicate one, and I'm sure you would understand my desire to make certain of your loyalties? You may have two days and an evening to consider the matter. Collect a sum of £30 and entrust it to the care of an envelope; then, deliver said envelope to the inside of the eighth lamp post from the Piccadilly entrance of St. James Park._

_If your monetary assurance is not delivered, I will be forced to take extreme measures. Doubt not that, should you go against me, you shall not see the dawn of the third day._

_Lastly, Mr. Benton, discretion is advised. No police, if you please, or our agreement shall come to an end._

Watson's lips had tightened into a firm, furious line. "Why, this is intolerable nonsense!"

Benton nodded, swallowing once or twice. "I thought so myself, Doctor. To be honest, the document so baffled and disconcerted me that I decided to dismiss it as a bluff or ruse. Truly, it is all so outrageous!"

"Is that to say that the anomalies the letter described were fictitious?" Watson asked.

"No, they are true enough. In my time at the bank, I have noticed occasional… slips in the balances." Benton grimaced. "I regret to say that fear for my job's security kept me from speaking up. I assumed that the issues were mistakes, but recently, I performed a certain amount of research."

Sherlock spoke up now, pipe in hand at the corner of the room. "You discovered that other employees have been making careful withdrawals from accounts not belonging to themselves?" he phrased delicately.

Again, Benton nodded. "Even so. I had finally come to the decision to notify someone in authority when I received this warning."

Sherlock moved to a chair and sat. "If you did not take the note seriously when you received it, what made you change your mind?"

"As you said before, Mr. Holmes, it was a strange time for me to leave my shift at the bank. As it happens, I had left less than a quarter after two o'clock from the bank on business, fully intending to return within the half hour." He took a shuddering breath before continuing. "While I was crossing a length of street, I found myself followed by a cab. I moved out of the way, but discovered that it followed me still. The situation became a bit desperate as I realized that the action was deliberate. Someone tried to run me over!"

He reached this time into his jacket pocket and removed a crumpled scrap of paper. "I only just jumped out of the way. When it passed, this note, tied to a rock, was lobbed at my head."

As he handed the second note to Holmes, Watson frowned, "At your head? Are you alright?"

Benton smiled a bit wryly. "Physically, yes. My head may be a bit sore, but that is nothing to the fear in my heart."

Sherlock read the note aloud. "_So that you may not doubt the seriousness of my claim... Your confidence, or your life._" He turned the paper over several times in his hands, observing every feature. Finally, he sighed, setting aside the note. "Mr. Benton, you were right to come to me. This case seems very dark indeed, and I do not doubt that your life is very much in danger."

The unfortunate teller closed his eyes and hung his head. "It is as I feared, then." Watson stood to pour a glass of brandy, offering it to their client who gratefully accepted. "What must happen now?"

Sherlock stood and walked over to the writing desk. He wrote two quick notes before calling for Mrs. Hudson. As she appeared, he thrust the letters into her hands. "Please have this first paper delivered to Mr. Charles Baker. It is of primary importance. This second send out with one of the Irregulars." Watson smiled to himself at the mention of Baker Streets informal agents.

Mrs. Hudson nodded a bit wearily and turned to perform her duty, Holmes brusquely shutting the door behind her. "Mr. Baker is an old contact of mine. For the remainder of the case, you shall be spending your time under his protection. I am afraid that his premises are neither clean nor welcoming, but they are safer than the broad daylight of central London, I may assure you.

"Unfortunately, it will likely take him half the day to prepare your safe-house. Until then, you shall remain here at Baker Street. Watson may escort you to your home so that you may collect whatever clothing you may require."

Holmes grabbed his coat and hat in a quick flurry of movement. Benton stuttered, rising uncertainly from his chair. "O-of course. What shall you do in the meantime?"

"I would like to take some account of your workplace and conduct some research of my own." He turned his attention to Watson. The two men had begun to understand each other quite well. While Benton considered the Holmes' sudden energy abrupt, Watson had long since become accustomed to the ebb and flow of a case. Holmes smiled. "Watson, I'm sure you are alright with this task I have set before you?"

The doctor stood and smirked. "Of course, old man." Holmes opened his mouth to say something more before Watson cut him off. "My revolver. Yes, I know."

Holmes nodded with a smirk of his own. "Indeed. I will see you gentlemen again for supper!" With that, he strode through the door.


	2. Chapter 2: Irregular

**Chapter Two: Irregular**

It was an evening later that Sherlock found himself alone in the sitting room, mulling over the scanty facts of the case. The evening prior had been spent uneasily as all three men prepared for the possibility of attack. No such incident occurred, however, and in the morning, Benton discovered himself alive. But his nerves were the worse for wear as his period of grace trailed closer to its end, and his face had taken on a haunted pallor. He was to deliver the money by dawn, or he would be murdered.

They had already discussed the possibility of simply paying the bribe - or was it a blackmail? - but Holmes had solemnly shaken his head. "What I may deduce from the facts at hand is that Mr. Benton's antagonist is a man of some wealth and rank. Parchment, as I have told you, can be terribly forthcoming about the aspects of its owner. The paper upon which your unfortunate threat was marked is of higher quality, thus I can make an assumption as to the level of your attacker's riches. The _origin_ of his wealth is, of course, now cast into dubiousness."

When the client expressed confusion, Holmes had attempted to clear the matter up. "He must be involved in the coercion of several members of the bank, hence the array of fiscal anomalies and his desire to keep them hidden. If he has forced the hand of tellers at your bank, who's to say he hasn't pushed his influence on another? Furthermore, it is extremely likely that, by buying your safety, you sell your freedom. With your confidence assured, he may begin to demand you work for him in the manner these other men have been forced into." He had sighed. "No, I'm afraid we must nip this now or allow an intolerable injustice to continue."

The late morning had brought a note from the Irregulars. Holmes had sent a lad out to scout the lamppost at St. James Park. Apparently, the post in question was unusable due to its glass case being shattered. It would remain dark and unlit, and in truth, Holmes conceded that it made a good choice for a drop off point.

The _afternoon_ had brought the summons of Charles Baker. With the safe-house finally prepared, Watson had gone out to escort Mr. Benton. They all agreed that the man should not travel alone until the success, or failure, of the case was determined.

Such was the progression of events when, a little after supper time, Sherlock heard the door fling open downstairs. He heard Mrs. Hudson gasp indignantly, calling after the light footsteps that now hopped up the stairs.

Holmes, of course, did not expect Watson home quite yet. Besides, Watson did not hop. He strode lightly to the door of the common area and opened it just in time to see a boy, face smeared, hair tangled, and clothing in dirty disarray, lifting a hand out towards the opposite knob. In surprise, the boy grinned and tipped his hat. "Sherlock 'Olmes!" He thrust the hand out once more. "Benny here. I 'eard you always 'ad use fer a Irregular. Dennis tossed yer name."

Sherlock cracked the smallest of smirks. He took the offered hand, patiently enduring the flurry of shakes the boy apparently supposed was a handshake. Chattering on, the boy let himself in. "I 'eard you was meetin' a new client, an' I sort of 'fought you might want someone to go and get information. Dennis said that yew sometimes hired folks wot got infermation, or least ways knew how ta go 'bout gettin' at it." He turned expectantly. "That's where I come in, a'course. I 'fink I might already 'ave somefing you wanna hear!"

Sherlock gestured to a chair at the table, and the boy happily acquiesced. Mrs. Hudson had made her way up the stairs to glare at the young intruder, but Sherlock smiled in an attempt to placate her. "Excuse my guest's brashness, Mrs. Hudson. I wonder if you might mind terribly to bring up some tea? And perhaps one or two biscuits, if you please, thank you." As he shut the door again, he heard an exasperated sigh and the trailing remains of some muttered, irate declarations.

He turned his attention once more on the young man at his table: no more than ten years old, to be sure. The lad was turning his head this way and that in the room, a strange look on his face as he inspected the few luxuries that, he was sure, Watson and he occasionally took for granted. He smiled, seating himself opposite his guest. "You said you might have information regarding Mr. Oliver Benton?"

The boy's attention returned to Sherlock, and his previous engaging grin returned. "Yessir! 'S probably not much, an' I'm sure a bloke so clever as ye'self 'as probably already figgered it already." He looked a bit sheepish, now. Mrs. Hudson politely knocked before letting herself inside, setting the tea things down at the table. Benny, as the boy had introduced himself, eagerly took up a drink and biscuit. Sherlock absently poured his own, not giving it much heed at the moment. Instead, he lightly questioned the excited boy.

"How did you hear of our client, I might first inquire? Or even, that we have accepted him as such?"

Benny chuckled. "Oh, right, that. Dontchya know, Mr. 'Olmes? The 'ole 'omeless network this side o' London's 'eard." He frowned suddenly, catching himself. "Not that we ain't being quiet 'bout it all, I promise."

Sherlock frowned. "I think I shall have to have a discussion with Charles Baker about that. I had really expected more discretion on his part."

The boy frowned again, his eyes betraying a certain air of discomfort. "Oh, well. Sorry, guv." He rubbed his neck distractedly. "Well, anyway, we all 'eard that the Benton fella 'ad to take to ground." He looked at the detective conspiratorially. "Really, we're surprised it 'adn't 'appened sooner. There's been talk fer a while about some man in the up in ups that bribes an' threatens the mo' unfortunate men at tha bottom of the pole, yeh know?"

Holmes' eyebrows shot up for a moment, and his frown deepened. "Is this to say you know something about this man?"

Benny nodded, looking increasingly uncomfortable. "Yeah. I'll tell ye, the stories I 'ear 'bout 'im are none too nice." He frowned at the cup in his hands. Sherlock followed his gaze. The cheery young man from earlier seemed to have dwarfed - a considerable feat as the boy was a trifle short for his age already. Sherlock had seen the look before in his Irregulars. The boys that came to him, eager to assist in the adventure of procuring information and dealing a blow to the criminal society, were at the end of the day still boys. Sherlock was not without his compassion, much though people who met him tended to denounce its existence.

No, Holmes very much _did_ have a soft spot or two. He was lax to admit it to others for multiple reasons. The first and less admirable of these factors was his pride and reputation. Sherlock Holmes was not an emotional man, and he would not suffer people to consider him as such. The second, however, was far more precious. It was simply that, were his compassions revealed and made too apparent, they could turn into definite vulnerabilities. It would not be hard to play upon the threads, as few as they were, to shake the great detective's resolve. Watson, he had long since discovered, was one of these vulnerabilities. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, much though they irritated Sherlock on occasion, were others.

The homeless network, but more particularly the ragtag band called the Baker Street Irregulars, was one of his only other human subjects of tenderness. The Irregulars had long since discovered, as Benny was testament, that the apartments of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson were a safe haven. They would never presume to stay the night here, or drop in without some form of intelligence to give in return. However, on only a few occasions, the good doctor had provided medicine or some similar attention when one had shown up in need. One or two times, Sherlock had invited them upstairs for a quick lunch. Even Mrs. Hudson, who treated their arrivals with complaints about muddy footprints and, "Oh, what will the neighbors think?" could not find herself unmoved by the eager faces and well-meaning hearts of the boys. More than once she had snuck a handkerchief of biscuits or scones into their hands as they left.

It was for that reason that Sherlock, as was his policy, stood to retrieve some several coins at a purse by his desk. He turned and faced the boy, who was now shuffling slightly and shooting his gaze downwards, and held them up. "This is the payment I offer the other Irregulars for information. It is yours if you desire."

The boy paused, but finally a smile lit his face once more. There was a bit of sadness in his eyes that seemed to linger, despite his enthusiasm. "Sounds good."

Sherlock handed the boy the money, all business now. He took a sip at his tea and declared briskly. "Fine! Tell me what you know about our mysterious assailant."

Benny nodded, looking back at his teacup. "'E goes by the name of…. A-athers. Jonathan Athers." He pulled a face and heaved a shaky sigh. "I can tell you, sir, it's worth my 'ead if 'e ever gets word I said somefin'." He shuddered again, looking up. "'E don't like to be trifled with. 'E's got a right brash temper, though 'e never takes care of 'is dirty business on 'is own." The Benny scrutinized Sherlock for a moment as he took another drink, frowning as he tried to process the boy's admissions. "'E makes 'is living offa threatening them bank employees. 'E bribes 'em, tho I suppose it ain't much of a bribe. It's just, 'do as I tells ya too, and if ye don't…'" The boy made a hand motion across his neck.

Sherlock nodded, setting aside his empty teacup. "That's much as I had suspected from what Mr. Benton told me. I did not previously have the name, however." He frowned, his finger coming to rest across his lips in thought. "Do you have anything else to tell me?"

The boy shook his head after a moment. "Not as much, nah." He fidgeted, looking at his finished tea and the empty tray. He had made quick work of the biscuits provided.

Sherlock nodded once, standing. "Well, you have been of tremendous assistance." He opened the door for the boy, who quickly gathered his hat and trod over to the door. "Indeed, I believe you may have single handedly rounded up my case for me. Here's my card." Benny took the card and stuffed it inside the pocket of his trousers. "If you ever have more information to provide, don't hesitate to visit." Sherlock smiled. The boy returned the smile, but seemed distracted to leave. He hastened to the stairs and ran down, as children often do, to come to a clatter at the bottom. Mrs. Hudson emerged and began to chastise the noise, but the boy simply grinned in response before opening the door and running out.

Sherlock barked a laugh as his landlady threw her hands up in exasperation. He glanced down. "Thank you for your patience Mrs. Hudson." Before returning to the door, he added as an afterthought, "Oh, and Mrs. Hudson? The tea was a trifle bitter. Perhaps you may see to that the next time you prepare some?" The hastily closed door blocked out the majority of her insulted retort.

His next order of business was to search his records for anything on Athers. He began his usual exercise of searching folders and flinging unnecessary documents to the floor. No more than ten minutes or so had passed before he found himself a bit breathless. He frowned, pressing a hand to his chest. It seemed as if the continued strain he enforced on his body was catching up to him once more, and he sighed in irritation. Apparently, his sleepless night had left him the worse for wear. He walked towards the teapot, bitter and cold though its contents likely were.

His step was cut off with a grunt as a cramp seized his stomach. The world became fuzzy and spun for a moment, and he tried to control the sudden nausea that raced down his spine to bob like ice in his gut. His mind began to race. He had not anticipated feeling quite so sick, or even so suddenly, regardless of whether his body was exhausted or not. Surely he would have had more warning?

Something was beginning to squirm at the back of his mind, but he was having problems concentrating. He stumbled over to the writing desk, his nearest refuge. His heart was racing, but it had suddenly decided that a lopsided sprint was the best way to perform its job.

He grunted at the grip of another cramp and clutched his arm deeper against his stomach. It was only then that the terrible thought hit him. His eyes widened, and he turned desperately to regard his discarded teacup.

Frantically, he seized a piece of paper from the mantle. His panic rose as he beheld the violent tremor of his arm. He scrawled a haphazard note.

Mrs. Hudson had been comfortably settled in her sitting room downstairs when she heard a strangled cry from the common room a floor above. She had learned long ago that her tenants were noisy and caused disruption at all hours of the day.

She had also learned, however, how to distinguish between the (comparatively) innocent antics of Holmes' and his research, and the more dangerous warning signs of trouble.

With an admirable burst of speed for her age, she was out of the chair and up the stairs in only a few moments. "Mr. Holmes!" An unsettling thump was the only answer.

Pushing the door open, Mrs. Hudson vowed she would never forget the terrible sight of the great Sherlock Holmes, pale and hunched in agony, succumbing to a seizure.

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Honest reviews always welcome. I'm really most curious to see what people think of this chapter. Cheers!


	3. Chapter 3: Instructions

**Chapter Three: Instructions**

It was a credit, John thought to himself, that their stout landlady was not easily excitable. Well… No, that wasn't quite the right way of putting it. Mrs. Hudson was certainly known to weep and yell and carry on when trifles inconvenienced themselves on her. No, what he meant was: in moments of desperation, her true colors showed. She was not the sort to dissolve into hysterics when tragedy struck. She could respond quickly in honest emergencies, scared though she may be. Perhaps it was a talent she had acquired and cultivated through her experiences with Holmes and himself. Watson thought it more likely that, somehow, their courageous personalities had drawn them together. Somehow, that innate sense of measured calm had attracted Holmes to her property those years ago, when he and Watson had only just begun their association.

Watson clasped his hands in front of him, trying to ease their agitated trembling by applying force. He had returned from his accompaniment of Mr. Benton to his make-shift safe house to find the grave countenance of his landlady at the landing. Wrapped in a shawl, she tremulously recounted the events that had occurred an hour ago.

"I'm so sorry, Doctor Watson," she confessed, "to have sent him off to the hospital. I know how he hates hospitals, and I know he prefers – and you as well – that you see to his health, but…"

She had given a shuddering sigh that he had returned with a bracing hand to her arm. "No, Mrs. Hudson, you did precisely what you should have. I do not have the means here to have treated him."

He hadn't been exaggerating for her sake. He had some small collection of medical accessories in his room, having long since noted Holmes' penchant for neglecting his care. But treating poison?

He shuddered and glanced down the hallway. Homes' medical treatment was out of his hands, at any rate. While he had some certain amount of pride in his abilities, this matter went beyond the skill of his singular attention. The treatment for his poison would require continued attention, and possibly, the consultation of multiple physicians.

He tried to drive the train of thought from his head. It was for naught, anyway. Despite how he might want to help care for his friend, and regardless of his ability to do so, he had other work to attend to. When Holmes had been discovered, he had had in his possession a very erratically written note. He had obviously struggled to complete it; however, the thing was absolutely vital for many reasons at once. John pulled it from the breast pocket of his jacket and examined it dolefully.

The hurried script was difficult to read. The last word ended in a hitching line evoking to the imagination a disconcertingly clear visual of the detective's deterioration. Upon it were three words.

"_Athers. Hemlock. Cheverly_."

The nature of the second word was obvious. In his final moments – the doctor frowned, resolving to not use that phrase again in reference to Holmes' condition – the detective had deduced the nature of his ailment. John had yet to observe the state of their sitting room as, upon meeting Mrs. Hudson at the landing of their building, he had immediately left for the hospital. He had instructed the poor woman to leave everything and touch nothing. He was sure that a quick inspection of the apartment would reveal evidence of Holmes' furtive attacker.

This, he figured, was the nature of the first word. Whoever this Athers fellow was, Watson believed him to be the culprit. Discovering the mode of Holmes' poisoning would incriminate the scoundrel and justice could be done.

It was the third and final word that left Watson with a sense of foreboding. To any other observer, it would mean nothing. However, for John, it spelled his gravest and solemnest anxiety.

Occasional complications on previous cases had given Holmes the idea long ago that some code between Watson and himself was advisable in the event that something happened to one or the other or discretion was necessitated. There were very few words and phrases in this language; "Jack Worthing," for example, conveyed that Holmes was operating under a different identity and that, whenever they met again, Watson should play along. It referred to an Oscar Wilde play, as did several other words in their secret language. Holmes appreciated the works of the playwright, and he and Watson had seem some of his productions. Another, unrelated code phrase was "Calm Monarch," which instructed that neither of them should try and contact one or the other, but rather use Holmes' brother, Mycroft Holmes, as an intercessor of necessary communication.

The word Holmes took such pains to communicate referred to a relatively recent addition to their code. "Cheverly," another reference to a Wilde play, warned that some vital betrayal had, or would, occur.

John leaned back in his stiff chair, trying to fight the dark gloom that was settling on him. "Cheverly" meant that John would have to be terribly careful from this moment on. Unfortunately, the problem with their code language was its lack of specifics. He only had "Athers" and "Cheverly."

He had long since come to the conclusion, correct or incorrect (he wished Holmes was conscious to affirm his suspicions), that the Benton case and Holmes' attack were connected. This was not the first time that Holmes had been attacked in the middle of his work by the guilty member of the case. Guilty men made desperate men, and if the antagonist in the Benton case was indeed Holmes' attacker, it was not hard to believe that, given his ease with violence, he might try and remove a detective who got too close.

"Athers" and "Cheverely," then, likely meant that someone in regards to the case had betrayed them. Or, _would_ betray them. Or possibly both. It was hard to tell at the moment, and Watson was growing increasingly uneasy with that area of confusion. He would have to be on guard, indeed.

He stood up to pace, attempting to ease the tension in his muscles. There was plenty to be agitated about, but the capstone to it all was the fourth message in the note. He unconsciously gripped it tighter and ignored its protests as it rumpled.

Intrinsically, the note had one final message for Watson. It indicated that, above everything else, Holmes had placed the matter in Watson's hands. It revealed that Holmes would not be seeing it through to the end. With those three words, it solemnly murmured, _I've done what I can with this one, Watson. I'm relying on you now._

He was relieved from his turbulent thoughts by the quiet footsteps of a doctor. Watson had met and spoke with him when he had first rushed into the hospital; it was he who had conveyed Holmes' papered instructions.

Before, this doctor had respected Watson's expertise by explaining the situation plainly, a decision Watson had appreciated enormously. He was never one for forced cheer or false optimism in personal matters of medicine.

"Dr. Watson, we've stabilized his condition as best as can be expected at the moment."

John heaved a relieved sigh. "When do you suspect him to wake?"

The doctor shook his head. "Not for some hours."

"Would my remaining help?"

"I'm afraid not, to be honest," the doctor grimaced. "If it would make you feel better, you are certainly welcome to visit. However, we can confidently predict that he will be quite unconscious for the remainder of the night and morning, possibly longer. It will be a long night of monitoring and treating his condition. In this case, the only option we have is to react to the problems that arise."

Watson glanced outside. It was getting late, now. Holmes had been admitted sometime after seven, and that must have been about an at least two hours ago. The dramatic claim on Benton's life would expire at dawn. Not for the first time, he was glad that their client was safe among Holmes' contacts.

Watson considered the doctors words before smiling weakly. "Of course, thank you. I just wanted to make sure." He ran a hand across his face, and the doctor gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"My offer remains; if you would like to see him now, please feel free. I'm sure you have business to see to. After a night's rest, you may return. Barring complications, he might be awake sometime late tomorrow."

Watson nodded and turned down the hallway towards the room where Holmes would be making his recovery. He didn't tell the doctor that, were the situation any different, he would happily sit at Holmes' bedside until he woke, as he had done several times before.

The sight of Holmes pale and struggling to breathe was what Watson had expected, and he was not caught off guard by his friend's condition. He approached the detective's bedside sadly, seeking out a twitching hand. A nurse was present, but she was polite to busy herself in another part of the room and give them privacy. She did not, however, abandon her post, and Watson gave a mental nod of approval. He was relieved to know that Holmes would be well taken care of.

Watson tried to push the medical jargon from his head as he monitored his friend. Depressants for seizures and charcoal and controlling Holmes' breathing were all tasks that were not his concern at the moment. Holmes had already given him his marching orders, and as his colleague, friend, and confidant, he would see them through.

"Recover quickly, old man." Watson patted his friend's hand with a sad smile. Holmes, of course, said nothing. Sparing a final glance across the detective's haunted features, Watson turned to leave, nodding once at the nurse who resumed her vigil.

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**Note: **I would apologize for the geeky Jeremy Brett tribute, but I worked so hard to make it work, and I fell in love with it, so... Sorry, not sorry.

(On the other hand, however, I sincerely apologize to anyone with medical training. I tried _really_ hard, but I'm still not sure I did it right.)


	4. Chapter 4: Division

**Chapter 4: Division**

Watson stopped just long enough to send a message off to Lestrade. The summons was slightly cryptic; Watson only revealed that Lestrade's assistance would be necessary for a very deeply involved case. He said nothing of Holmes' condition yet, remembering the warning of _Cheverly_. The doctor, a man of firm loyalties, scowled around the bitter taste in his mouth as he grudgingly followed the precautions the warning required. He didn't like to think of the Inspector, who was a friend at least to Watson (Holmes would vehemently deny any affection for the Yarder), under the inky haze of suspicion. But the situation, terrible as it was, required it. Watson had vowed to do his duty, much though it pained him.

When he arrived by cab at Baker Street, he was pleased to see that the Inspector had come by immediately. Lestrade smiled in a businesslike fashion. "Ah, Doctor Watson! So, you and Holmes have gotten into a case above your heads, have you?"

The ferret-like grin would have irritated Holmes to no end. Watson was trying to calculate the man's reactions. _Betrayal in the case, or a betrayal close to home_. Carefully, Watson replied, "Yes, I'm afraid we have."

The Yarder grinned in barely veiled satisfaction. It was something of a mission of his to, just once, be cleverer than Holmes. "Quite right, too. It was bound to happen eventually. Well, down to business. It's late and I'm sure we would all like to wrap up whatever the issue is. Where's Holmes? Inside puttering with his stacks of records, I have no doubt?"

Watson sighed. Lestrade, to his credit, finally noticed the doctor's grim countenance. Frowning, he asked, "Doctor Watson? Is everything alright?"

"No, actually, I'm afraid not. Holmes has been poisoned."

Watson was relieved by Lestrade's reaction. Any actor could feign surprise, but few were able to pale on command. And besides, Watson knew Lestrade was no actor.

The Inspector's expression changed rapidly. The smugness evaporated and wrinkles appeared across his face as it washed with dread. He seemed to have shrunk as his air of superiority, that costume he always wore, was removed and the honest man underneath came to the fore.

_I can trust him_, Watson sighed with satisfaction.

"I-I had no idea. Will he be alright, Doctor?" Despite the constant game of trying to best one another, Lestrade had once revealed that, in honesty, he and many at Scotland Yard were quite proud of Holmes. That affection was revealed once more in his undisguised concern.

"As long as he is well looked after, he should be. He is recovering at hospital now."

Lestrade sighed in relief. With a tremulous smile, he spoke again. "I am pleased to hear it. Perhaps we should go inside so that you may describe the case to me?"

Watson filled Lestrade in on the particulars, summarizing the Benton case and its likely connection with Holmes' accusation, "Athers." He also, after some consideration, decided to reveal to Lestrade the meaning of _Cheverley_. If there was some betrayal afoot, the Inspector should be made aware.

As they approached the common area, Watson finished. "Holmes seems to think that this case runs deeply. If we discover this man, Athers, we shall, hopefully, also locate some record of who he has under his coercion." Opening the door, he gestured for Lestrade to enter.

"I can tell you, Doctor Watson, if that is the case, we shall have a long couple of weeks ahead of us at the Yard," Lestrade sighed. He cast his glance around the room. "I suppose we should discover the means of Mr. Holmes' poisoning. With enough evidence, we can gather a warrant to arrest the scoundrel who arranged this."

Watson nodded. He was temporarily distracted by the overturned chair at the writing desk and the way the rug had been rumpled and shoved. He stared at the spot for a few hard seconds before shaking himself. Lestrade had already entered and was inspecting windowsills and tables. Watson's gaze was drawn to the tea set at the table.

Frowning, he approached. _Two_ people had sat down for tea. It seemed that Holmes had entertained a visitor. Watson walked to the stairs outside the room and called for Mrs. Hudson. Despite the late hour, the poor woman had not retired to bed and came quietly up the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson, did Holmes have a visitor this evening?"

The woman nodded. "Yes, he did. It was one of the Irregulars with some information, I think." She frowned. "Actually, he seemed like a new addition. I've never seen the boy before."

Watson nodded, thinking quickly. "And Holmes sent you for tea?"

"Yes, in fact, he did." She chuckled sadly, remembering their brief conversation. It had made her angry before, but tragedy had a way of turning irritating memories into fond ones. "Silly man, he had the gall to say that I'd made the tea too bitter."

It was a moment before, almost in unison, their expressions dropped. She placed a trembling hand over her mouth. "The tea!"

Lestrade had turned around and was staring at the landlady with wide eyes. Watson stepped over to the tea set again and, carefully, picked up Holmes' cup. There, at the bottom, was the tiniest hint of a grainy substance. "So," he breathed finally. "It was the tea."

Watson was temporarily dumbfounded as Lestrade, straitening and assuming the role of Inspector once more, strode over to Mrs. Hudson. "I'm afraid that you are now a suspect, madam."

The scandalized woman gasped. "I would nev—"

"You brought his tea. It is possible that you were an accomplice in this."

"Lestrade," Watson huffed angrily, "Enough! How could it have been Mrs. Hudson?" Despite his vehemence, his mind was struggling. He was having a hard time thinking past the bell-like thrum of Holmes' warning. _Cheverley_.

It was apparently at the forefront of the Inspector's mind as well. Conspiratorially, he hissed at Watson. "Holmes' warning, doctor! The betrayal could have been at the hands of someone close to home!" Mrs. Hudson, who knew nothing of the warning, had paled at the implied accusation.

Carefully, Watson composed himself. "Lestrade, let us look at the facts." If he was going to do Holmes' instructions justice, he would have to focus on rational logic. He turned again to the tea set. "Only Holmes' cup has been poisoned."

Lestrade frowned, ignoring the heated and trembling glare of the landlady beside him. "She could have been bribed to leave the poison in Holmes' cup alone."

Watson shook his head, warming up to his thoughts now. "No. Do you really think Holmes would be so unobservant as to miss a pile of poison at the bottom of his cup?" He shook his head again. "No, it is far more likely that whoever this boy was that came to visit Holmes betrayed him."

Lestrade's resolve was crumbling now. "How would he do it?" he asked stubbornly.

"It would be simple. Holmes trusts the Irregulars. If the boy came with information, Holmes would likely have trusted him all the more completely. Any time he turned his back, the boy could have slipped the poison into his drink." He rubbed a hand across his face. It was terribly simple.

Lestrade had hung his head in thought. Beside him, Mrs. Hudson shuffled. "Doctor," she finally said. "I overheard some of their conversation. Before the boy and Mr. Holmes closed the door, he introduced himself as Benny. He said that Dennis had given him Mr. Holmes' address."

Dennis was one of the younger members of the Irregulars. "Alright. I think we should locate Dennis and have a word with him."

Lestrade had straightened again. The stubborn mask had reappeared and settled like an iron weight, Watson observed ruefully. "I'm afraid it is policy that we must take Mrs. Hudson into custody as a potential suspect."

Watson could have strangled him, although Mrs. Hudson didn't look too far from it herself. "Honestly, Lestrade, you can't be serious!" he growled.

Lestrade's expression turned grim. "Doctor Watson, you have your duty to Holmes, and I have mine."

A quiet battle of wills surged between the glaring men before Mrs. Hudson, with a courageous grace that continued to surprise Watson, broke the argument. "Doctor Watson, it's alright. There's no time to argue, for Mr. Holmes' sake."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure." She smiled faintly. "Besides, it might not be a bad idea to have a constable come around to stay the night. There are treacherous people out and about."

Watson was still unhappy, but Lestrade seemed resolute on the turn of events. "Right you are, Mrs. Hudson. We shall send out for two officers to come and watch you. At the completion of the case, should you be proven absolutely free of guilt in this matter, you shall be released."

Mrs. Hudson fixed him with a mild expression. "Of course, Inspector. Mind you," she sniffed disdainfully, "the constables can fix their own tea."

* * *

**Notes: **I've had two reviews and I just wanted to say THANK YOU SO MUCH! I really,_ really_ appreciate it, and I'm glad you are enjoying the story so much! I hope it continues to interest and excite! :)


	5. Chapter 5: Cheverly

**Chapter Five: Cheverly**

While they waited for Lestrade's men to arrive, Watson busied himself with Holmes' records. There were a few men who were associated with the name of Athers. However, only one seemed to fit the profile Holmes had described before.

"Of the possible suspects," Watson informed Lestrade, "I think this man 'Jonathan Athers' is the most likely culprit."

Lestrade nodded. "Right. I'll take some men with me to go check the transaction histories at the stores around London. If we can find a connection between Athers and the purchase of hemlock, there will be enough evidence to detain him, at least. What shall you do?"

Watson pulled on his coat. "As I said before, I think I would like to have a word with Dennis and the other Irregulars. If we can find Benny, we can piece together a better image of what happened here this evening." And with that, the two men parted ways.

Watson pulled out his watch as he strode along the streets of London. It was two in the morning, now. There were only three hours left until dawn.

He knew the primary locations of the oldest Irregulars. If he could get word to one of them, he could speed up his search exponentially. As he walked, however, Watson was not unaware of his present danger. Athers had managed to worm under Holmes' defenses when _he_ had gotten too close. Now, Watson was on the trail of Athers' confederates. He placed a reassuring hand on the revolver inside his jacket. Covertly, he repositioned it into a more accessible place.

Half an hour later, Watson located one of the groups of boys at an old, disreputable tavern. The Irregulars had located many sanctuaries over the years, and this was one of the oldest. Clientele often found themselves leaving with far fewer possessions than what they had come in with, and so its regular patrons tended to be those who had nothing more to lose.

Despite the late hour, the inner room was loud, rife with shouting and laughter. Shuffling inside as discreetly as he could, Watson located one of the boys. "Tracy!" he called.

The boy, who had been lounging in a corner shouting commentary into the heated debate of two men, looked up in surprise. A grin spread across his face and he sauntered over to Watson. "Cor, if it ain't Doc Watson! What brings you to my corner of the slums this early in tha mornin'?"

Watson smiled weakly. "Not pleasure, I can assure you. I have need of the Irregulars. I'm looking for either Dennis, or a young boy named Benny. Perhaps ten years old?"

Tracy nodded, suddenly businesslike. The position of 'Irregular' certainly wasn't official, but the boys associated with Holmes all bore the title proudly. They considered the job of gathering information for the detective to be one of their most "honest" occupations. "Right. Dennis? I 'eard 'e was poppin' 'bout round Hyde Park this last week. If yeh 'ead on over there, I'll order one-a the boys to meet ya 'alf way."

When Watson agreed, Tracy turned around and, with all of the determination of a military officer, yanked a boy up from under a table (the boy had been making freely with the contents of a drunkard's purse, foolishly left within reach in his waistband). The boy began to whine a protest but quickly became serious as he was given instruction.

Saluting once to Watson, the little boy, apparently nicknamed Dobber, ran out into the cold London air. Watson shook Tracy's hand in thanks. He quickly searched the area in the shy chance that Benny was nearby, but he soon gave it up, turning instead towards Hyde Park.

Another half hour brought him face to face with Dobber and the boy named Dennis. Three other boys were with them, two of whom looked older: perhaps in their early or mid-teens.

"Dennis? Did you speak with a boy named Benny recently about Baker Street?" Watson inquired.

Two boys groaned while another said something to the effect of, "Aw 'ell, not Benny." Dennis ignored them. "Yeah, I did. Why d'ya ask?"

Watson sighed. "It's imperative I locate him. I believe he may be connected with –" He caught himself and bit his lip. "Well, with some bad business."

One of the teens frowned. "Somefin' bad?" He glanced around, noting for the first time that the doctor was unaccompanied. "Is Messr Holmes all right?"

Before Watson could reply, another boy gasped. "Blimey! No, mate, ah 'eard there was a detective wot got sent to hospital. Aw, that weren't Holmes were it?"

Dennis had paled. "Doc, it weren't him, right?"

Watson couldn't help but grimace. The boys were terribly observant when they wanted to be. There was nothing that could be done but reveal what had happened. He described Benny's visit, the poisoning, and the discovery of the tainted teacup.

Their faces had clouded considerably with the information. They began to talk and ramble. Dennis was beside himself with woe. "I won't never forgive meself if I done helped someone tryin tah do in Mister Holmes."

"We gotter find Benny!"

"I reckon I'ma knock 'is canister in, I am! Calls 'imself an Irregular –"

"No wonder he was skulkin' around so much lately!"

"Boys, focus, we need-"

"Den, why'd you go an' tell 'im 'bout 'Olmes anyhow?"

"—And then I'ma kick 'is shins, an' 'is ears, an' is—"

"Boys! _Boys_!"

"Right rum look on 'is face all this time, an' no wonder!"

"_Wait!"_ It was no use, Watson realized. The boys were no longer listening.

"—Can't believe someone would get the guts to take on Messr Sherlock Holmes… Right idjit move –"

"Charlie Baker shoulda turned 'im away first look 'e got—"

Watson's eyes widened as he caught the name in the midst of the oaths and declarations. He shouted "Wait!" a few more times to no avail.

Every once in a while, Watson's control dropped, and the Soldier stepped to the fore; now, mustering all of his experience and resolve, the soldier in John Watson commanded with one final shout, "Everybody _si-lent!_"

Five muddy faces turned to stare at Watson. Feeling the hierarchy of command back in its proper place, the Soldier continued crisply, "Who mentioned Charles Baker?"

The boy who had accompanied the teens raised his hand. He only spoke when he sensed that Watson wanted him to elaborate. "Benny's been round there lots the past week. 'E's chums wif one'a Charlie's 'ired 'eavies." Mistaking Watson's stunned silence for a cue to keep speaking, he continued. "'E's sorta quiet. 'E likes followin' the mates an' I along. 'E's nice an' all once you get 'im talkin', and 'e's a great actor! We seen him playin' the upper class folks, 'cause they take a shine—"

It only took a stern wave of Watson's hand for the boy to stop speaking. Dennis looked ready to cry. He used the momentary silence to let loose his lament. "Doc, I 'ad no idea!" The boy's voice was high and tight. "I figgered Benny was in a tough spot, an' wif 'im so good at actin' I fought of 'im joinin' up wif the 'Regulars!"

A quivering chin stopped the boy before Watson could ask him to be silent. Dennis dropped his head to hide the flush blooming across his face. Watson, meanwhile, had been mentally staggering under the weight of his sudden revelation. The matter lay clear before him.

_Cheverly!_

The boys discovered that the doctor, despite the occasional limp that trifled his step, could move like a lion when the situation required it. Two boys shouted in surprise as the gang turned to rush after him. Watson was issuing orders as he ran. _Two hours, _he thought. "I need three of you to go and search out Detective Inspector Lestrade. Call in other members of the Irregulars, if you must. Tell him to bring several armed men with him to the current residence of Charles Baker. You two oldest," he added grimly. "You will accompany me."

Dobber asked the question before anyone else could. "Where are you lot goin'? What didju figger out, Doc?"

"Either Holmes has been betrayed, or Baker has. If we do not tread carefully, boys, there may be murder before dawn."


	6. Chapter 6: Morning

**Chapter 6: Morning**

_Forty-five minutes left_, Watson thought with growing concern. He did not want to have to engage their enemy – or enemies – without the Yard's backup, but he would be forced into action if the case came to its climax. The windows of Charles Baker's house were dark and undisturbed. Hopefully, that meant that no one had awoken or been harmed.

Were it not for the stench of the alleyway Watson and the boys hid in for cover, or the precipitous threat of danger rounding upon them, Watson may have enjoyed the atmosphere of early morning. He was distracted now by fear, anxiety, and exhaustion. After all, he had not slept well the night previous, and the day's events had been trying on his nerves. However, he remembered the excitement morning had brokered when, in memories past, he had been more carefree to enjoy them. Whether this was in his youth, when his family rose early to start lengthy travel, or in his later years, when association with Holmes had destroyed the ordinary boundaries of sleep and wakefulness; there was an almost electric spark to the hour or two before dawn. It spoke of the oncoming vitality of morning and a new day.

The majority of his focus was away from these thoughts, weighed down as it was by the concerns for his client; for Lestrade and the force; for the boys under his command; for _Holmes_, whose current condition was a mystery of its own. There was one tiny sliver of his consciousness, however, that rallied to that electric spark. Possibilities and vitality were both things Watson absolutely needed at the moment. He unknowingly clung to them and the fact that, whatever happened now, the next day would still come to pass.

One of the boys beside Watson shuffled slightly, trying to keep himself awake and alert. Simon and Archie, as they had finally introduced themselves, were aware of the tension and had vowed to help Watson through to the end. On a normal occasion, Watson would have been lax to bring them along and subject them to danger. However, if the assailant were to make their move on the client, Watson preferred to have the backup of numbers to avoid bloodshed.

_Thirty-seven minutes_. Watson pulled a face at his watch, wishing desperately that Lestrade would arrive. Although, if it were taking this long, he mollified, then it possibly meant that Athers had been located.

Watson sighed and glanced at the young men beside him. "Are you two sure you're comfortable with this?"

Archie waved a dismissive hand. "'Course, Doc. Hell, I've had my fair share of right squabbles. These fists 'ov gotten me through a tight spot or two."

Simon grinned. "Sure enough. An' I got me little chiv on 'and 'ere if things get real bad, like."

Archie sobered for a moment. "'Sides," he said quietly, "Mister Holmes got hurt at the hands of an Irregular. That's unacceptable."

The tension had an element of remorse, now. "Tha' never shoulda 'appened, Doc," Simon muttered finally. "We're grateful to you an' Messr Holmes fer… Well, a lodda reasons. 'E doesn't deserve this sorta treatment." He chuckled softly. "'Ell, 'e deserves better than us, really."

Watson's face was blank as he listened to the two young men. It was the first time that any of the boys that reported to them had ever revealed their plain sentiments about Holmes and himself. While he had always sensed a mutual affection, it was a strange, bitter sweet blow to hear it acknowledged.

"We'll go in fists a blazin' if fer no one else but Mister Holmes and yerself, Doc. It's the least we can do after you done so much to help us and the few good folk in this damn awful city." Archie gave a resolute nod before turning his attention back to the house.

Watson felt that his forehead had furrowed and his mouth had pursed into a line. He washed the evident emotion from his face, relieved that the darkness hid his humbled countenance.

The next seventeen minutes passed in silence. The sky had begun to lighten in anticipation of dawn. Chewing on his lip, Watson peered into the house, trying to gage the situation. But still, there was nothing.

Luckily, Archie stiffening beside him gave the doctor some warning. With his attention on the house, Watson might have jumped and given away their position when a very large man came soundlessly from the street beside them. He was bundled up tightly against the cold and Watson sensed that he had been outside for quite a long time. The man was making his way towards the house.

_Damn it all_, Watson swore. Lestrade was nowhere to be seen.

As the man drew nearer to the house, he was confronted by another that swaggered out from the cover of shadows. Again, under ordinary circumstances, Watson might have been pleased by the security Baker had put in place. The man on watch had been completely hidden in the shadows near the house. The two men talked for a moment, and Watson noted that they seemed amiable.

Adrenaline beginning to surge, the Soldier made his second appearance of the morning, and he came to several conclusions at once. The first was that this man was very likely the traitor to Baker and Holmes' arrangements. He remembered what the young Irregular had said; Benny was close to a body-guard under Baker's appointment. The bulky and imposing build of the man, combined with the fact that he had come from the direction of the distant St. James Park, condemned him.

The second conclusion was that, if Watson interrupted the men now, the hit-man might panic and take the watchman as a hostage – or worse. He would have to wait until the hit-man went inside before engaging the situation.

Hissing through his teeth and bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet in tense anticipation, he watched as the men finally concluded their conversation. The watchman put his hands in his pockets and stood in front of the building while the hit-man removed his keys, inserted them, turned the knob and… Yes, finally, went inside, closing the door softly behind him.

The boys had either come to the same conclusion about the situation or noted Watson's tension; likely, they had done both. They raced out after Watson as he sprinted towards the watchman.

The same man was now staring open mouthed in complete confusion. Incredulously, he began, "What in the 'ell are y—"

Watson cut him off with a finger to his lips, jogging closer. "Shh! We've been betrayed! The man you just let in is—"

Frustratingly, Watson found himself quite suddenly staggering to the side. A throbbing crack of pain was sinking into his jaw.

Mentally, he began swearing with irate ferocity. _I absolutely _deplore_ Cheverly_, he thought savagely.

Archie and Simon were mobilized before Watson had the time to recover. The knife Simon had mentioned was already in his hand. Archie had jumped at the Watchman and now struggled with him. The teenager's arms were locked around the watchman's neck as he clung upon his back. The man had struggled to draw a knife of his own, but Simon kicked it out of his hand. Archie tugged tighter on his grip, earning a choked harrumph from his victim. "Doc – Sim'n – go! I'll handle 'im!"

Watson and Simon were off without further suggestion. Archie had been swung roughly from the watchman's back and was scrambling towards the discarded knife. It was all Watson could note before he pounded up to the door, revolver suddenly in hand.

The intruder had left it unlocked. He shoved it open and tried to adjust his eyes to the gloom inside. Oliver Benton, he knew, was upstairs. There was the sound of a man tromping across the landing and a candle-light that emerged from the darkness. It illuminated the perturbed face of Charles Baker. "Doctor Watson! What the devil is going on out there?"

Watson was jogging up the stairs. "Where's the man that just came in?" he questioned fiercely.

Baker looked taken aback. "Jimmie? He's just gone to take up his shift watching Mr. Benton. What's go—"

There was a hoarse shout of alarm from the room that was left of the staircase down a short hallway. Cursing, Watson pushed past Baker and ran to the compromised lodging of their client.

Benton, possibly awoken by the noise outside, or perhaps having not been able to sleep in the first place, had lit a candle and was cowering back from the hit-man; he'd only had the chance to walk a few steps beyond the threshold. The assassin spun around, and Watson caught the desperate snarl and glint of metal just in time.

His revolver aimed and shot automatically, and the hit-man crumpled around his stomach with a strangled groan. An air splitting whiz just past Watson's left ear told him how close he had come to harm. Simon, always quick to react, ran forward to rip the assailant's gun from his faltered grip.

Watson noticed Baker's presence suddenly behind him. "What in _blazes_—"

"It's all over, Mr. Baker," Watson interrupted with a sigh. "Relax." He stepped forward, crouched beside the wounded man, and glared at the shot he had been forced to take. The doctor would have felt more shame if he were not still able to hear the ringing in his left ear. "You'll live," he muttered brusquely.

Oliver Benton was trembling fiercely. Now that the Soldier had done his duty, the Doctor was once more in control. Watson stood to guide the shocked man to a chair. Baker was shouting something, his voice shrill with the realization that several men under his charge had betrayed him. Archie had run in at some point and now stood in the doorway with a giant grin, despite the fact that he was clutching a bleeding arm and sporting a bruised eye. Downstairs, Watson heard the sound of police whistles, even if they _were_ a trifle late to the scene. A group of boys could be heard galloping up the stairway with excited shouts.

As the room became a nucleus of noise and chaos, Watson sighed, focusing on none of it. Relief was pouring across his tense back and the presence of adrenaline was decreasing, leaving John trembling and weary but as content as circumstances would allow.

The case was finished. His duty to Holmes was satisfied.

* * *

**Notes:** Just one more chapter!


	7. Chapter 7: Singular

**Chapter 7: Singular**

It was almost eight o'clock in the morning when Watson finally found himself at the hospital again. He had come from Baker Street where he and Lestrade had relieved Mrs. Hudson of her guards. Apparently, the woman had refused to sleep. Instead, she had stayed awake and entertained the two constables in her company with stories of her late husband. Watson would have found the scene endearing - Mrs. Hudson wrapped in her shawl and laughing with her temporary companions as morning dawned - if the doctor inside him hadn't wanted to chastise her for not resting.

However, as he reflected on it now, he wondered if the night spent in reminiscing and friendly company hadn't done her more good than sleep. Last night, her face had been wan and troubled. This morning, some of the haunt behind her eyes had diminished. He was sure that her unease stemmed from having seen Holmes so diminished. He realized suddenly that she would have (of course) stayed with him until the ambulance arrived. He was momentarily touched by the thought. Watson appreciated once more the motherly qualities of their landlady.

It was only now as he settled into a chair beside Holmes' bedside that he allowed himself to ruminate on these matters and the events that had passed in the past thirteen hours.

He noted that Holmes looked calmer in his rest than he had last night. His breathing had regulated and only occasionally hitched now at the presentation of some cramp along his body. When Watson had entered Holmes' room, he had spoken to the nurse on duty.

She informed him that the detective had suffered only two more fits through the course of the morning, and that those had been many hours ago. The doctors were confident that the poison was leaving his system and that he was, once and for all, truly recovering.

Watson's tired mind wandered again as he shuffled into a more comfortable position, his head resting on the arm that leaned against the side of the chair. His thoughts were carding vaguely through the particulars of his discussion with Lestrade. The Inspector, limping from an injury he had acquired while arresting Jonathon Athers, had apologized for not arriving sooner.

"We caught the scoundrel by surprise, but he didn't go down without a fight, let me tell you." Lestrade had sighed wearily. "His actions confessed his guilt. We have the records of a local medical shop for evidence as well as a notebook of accounts we found on his desk. You and Holmes were right. He's got his hands in all sorts of business. Scotland Yard will be cleaning this mess up for a month!"

Watson caught his eyes shutting. It was no use, he thought tiredly. He was going to end up falling asleep. He stared hard at Holmes, trying to remain resolute, but his consciousness slipped away. Soon, Doctor Watson was asleep with his legs stretched out in front of him, his arm hanging off of the chair, and his head lolled to the side.

When he awoke again, he found that a blanket had been draped across his body. Yawning, he glanced upwards to see the back of a nurse. She was seated at a table across from Holmes' bed, apparently still maintaining a watch on the detective.

"Watson."

John felt a smile creep across his face at the low voiced murmur. The detective was back. "Holmes, old man."

The nurse turned and smiled. Satisfied that her two patients were awake and well, she gently excused herself. Watson scooted his chair closer to Holmes' bed.

He was awake, but his face looked tired. At the moment, though, it was graced by a pleased smile. "I assume you saw the case through to the end?"

Watson grinned. "Indeed, Holmes. Oliver Benton is alive and Jonathan Athers is under Lestrade's custody. _You_ solved most of the case for us though, old man. Matters wouldn't have ended quite so peacefully if you hadn't managed to write that note."

Holmes' face darkened momentarily. "I'm simply glad that I had the presence of mind to write it." Despite the smile, Watson could sense that there was a despondency hovering over the detective. Holmes' eyes betrayed a degree of sadness he was unable to hide.

Watson twitched a half smile, but it was marred by his pensive emotions. He remembered the fallen chair and the wrinkled carpet, and the drawn countenance of their landlady the evening before. He bowed his head uncomfortably, staring at his lap.

It was Holmes, surprisingly, who broke the silence. "Which men were our traitors, in the end?" He was staring calmly at the far wall.

"There was a body-guard and a watchman that Baker had appointed. They were apparently bought by Athers. Lestrade said that he admitted as much, albeit in the midst of angry oaths, when he was arrested." Watson chuckled and stared once more at his hands. He waited a moment before adding quietly, "And of course, there was the boy."

Holmes said nothing. As the detective's fingers fidgeted with one another, Watson believed he understood the source of Holmes' sadness. The agitated motion spoke louder than any admission.

One of Holmes' few emotional vulnerabilities had been cruelly used against him. The man would have to come to terms with that fact. Watson only hoped that the little bit of trust Holmes allowed for others wouldn't be entirely undermined by this singular betrayal.

"I spoke to the Irregulars, Holmes. There were quite angry about the whole matter. Dennis seems very contrite about having been so free with our address."

Holmes, to Watson's surprise, chuckled. He waved a dismissive hand and replied quite softly and plainly, "No, it's not their fault. It was bound to happen eventually." His face tightened, and he sighed with a resigned frown. "No, Watson, I was negligent in my usual vigilance. The fault lies not with the boys but with myself." He was silent before vowing quietly, "They will not receive the admonishment of a changed demeanor on my part."

When Watson looked up, he was pleased to see some of the weight of Holmes' gloom lifted. He was not entirely rid of his sadness, of course. Watson suspected that it would take some time for it to completely diminish. That was only to be expected.

Holmes clapped his hands together with the flicker of a smile passing across his lips. For a moment, the spry and unflappable detective reappeared. "Enough of this talk of betrayal and trust. We have won the day again, my dear Watson!"

Watson stood with a grin and stretched. "And what a day it has been." He pulled out his watch. "Good heavens. It is nearly three in the afternoon."

After some discussion with Holmes' doctors, Watson was able to win the detective a reprieve from the hospital. Holmes' care would consist of rest and a careful diet, but otherwise, he was in the clear. The hospital staff trusted that Watson's medical abilities were more than competent to deal with any problems that may arise. He was very relieved that they acquiesced; a cooped-up Holmes did not make an easy patient, and he knew that their Baker Street rooms would be far better suited for his recovery than the confines of the hospital.

Watson sent a message ahead to Mrs. Hudson, and the two men were greeted by her warm smile at the door of their building. "Mr. Holmes, I'm very glad to see you well," she stated politely.

The detective was weak and pale from travel, and Watson had to support him up the stairs, but his face warmed at the sight of Mrs. Hudson's cheerful countenance. Upon entering the common area, Watson had expected to find the mess left by the night before. However, it seemed as if Mrs. Hudson had found the time to clean it. Watson sat Holmes gently on the settee before stating in surprise, "Mrs. Hudson! You cleaned!"

"Well, of course! The room was in a right state of disrepair." She settled a firm gaze on Holmes.

For a moment, the two stared at one another. Watson noticed the silence and stopped, distracted from hanging up his jacket, to observe. Some unspoken conversation seemed to pass between the two, although Watson would never entirely understand it. After a moment, Mrs. Hudson gave a firm nod and walked to the door. Holmes turned his gaze downwards, hiding a smile.

"I'll make you and Holmes some supper," she called from the stairs. "I'm sure you'll need something hearty after all of that exercise the past two nights."

Watson thanked her before helping to settle Holmes in.

About an hour later, their idle conversation was interrupted by a knock downstairs. They heard Mrs. Hudson answer the door and speak for a moment with their visitor. There was a pause, and then the sound of quick footsteps up the stairs. A polite knock at the common room door announced the presence of their caller.

Holmes raised an eyebrow inquisitively at Watson. "Come in," he called finally.

Watson recognized Simon from earlier this morning. He noted, however, that the young man had gone to some effort to straighten his appearance. His dark hair had been smoothed and his clothing appropriately tucked and ordered. The straggly scarf he had added around his neck made him seem more mature, somehow. Quietly, Simon nodded, "Messr Holmes, sir."

Holmes nodded in reply. "Simon. Watson tells me you and Archie accompanied him to the residence of the unfortunate Charles Baker."

"Yessir."

Holmes smiled gently. "You have my thanks. It was a dangerous situation, and I was pleased to hear that Doctor Watson did not have to face it without assistance."

Simon shuffled uncomfortably. "Naw, it weren't no problem, Messr Holmes. 'Least we could do, given the circumstances." He bit his lip. While Holmes did not blame the Irregulars, it seemed as if they blamed themselves. "Wiggins an' I 'ad a talk. 'Parently, Tracy caught up wif 'im an' tol' 'im bout wha' happened. Two fings, Messr Holmes." He frowned. "Well, 'free, ah suppose, bu—"

"Simon," Watson placated quietly, "it's alright. What have you got to tell us?"

The young man's demeanor relaxed some, although he was still fidgeting with his hands. "Right, Doc. Sorry. Well, first Messr Holmes. Wiggin's wanted yeh to know. They found Benny." His face darkened, and Watson noted that the detective's clouded as well. "Wiggins brought 'im to that jack Lestrade." He frowned, glaring at the floor. "'Suppose it's nice tha' the kid said 'e regretted what 'e done. Dunno. For now, least ways, 'e's out of our hair an' 'e can fink bout wha 'appened."

Holmes was silent. It would be some time before the matter did not raise a pang of discomfort. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "Thank you for the information, Simon. What else did you have to report?"

Simon chuckled, letting some of the tension wash away. "Well, naw' so much to report, as it is." He smiled bashfully. "Actually, the Irregulars chipped in. We wanted teh give yeh somefin, to say we're sorry." He pulled out a pouch from his jacket. "'S not much, but… We jus' wanted to make sure yeh knew we're glad yer alright."

Holmes' face was a mystery as he accepted the gift. He opened it to reveal a package of tobacco.

"Doc prolly won't let yeh smoke it fer a bit, I 'magine," Simon chuckled.

After a moment's consideration, Holmes' face lit up with a smile. It was hiding stronger emotions, Watson knew, but he could tell that the detective was touched by the gesture. "It is a most thoughtful gift. Be sure to send my gratitude to the Irregulars."

"'Course, Messr Holmes." Simon was finally grinning again. "Jus' remember. The Irregulars are proud to work wif' you, sir. Let us know any time we can 'elp."

Watson stood to escort Simon to the door, leaving Holmes with his thoughts. In the entryway, Simon tipped his hat.

"Pleasure workin' with yeh Doc. Archie sends 'is regards. 'E was a bit dizzy after 'is bout of fightin' las' night."

Watson chuckled ruefully. "I can imagine. I'm sorry he was injured. I'd prefer him to rest than to make courtesy calls, anyway."

After a moment, he placed a hand on the young man's shoulders. In the silence, the two regarded one another, just for a second, as men. "Thank you," Watson said finally.

Simon smiled sadly. "Like I said, we owe yeh two." He grimaced. "Jus' don't tell him nuffin' bout wha' ah said las' night, if yeh don't mind. No need gettin' too 'motional."

Watson laughed. "Of course not." He shut the door behind the teenager and returned upstairs.

The room seemed calmer and more relaxed than it had in days. Holmes smiled broadly at Watson as he entered. "Ah! My dear Watson! Mrs. Hudson has just finished preparing supper. I say we sit down to a well-deserved meal."

The mask of the detective was safely in place once more. Holmes carefully eased himself off of the settee. Chattering along the way, he carefully placed his gift on the mantle. He lingered for only a moment before turning his attention on the table. "Watson, you will join me, won't you?"

"Of course, old man. My appetite's always been greater than yours, after all."

Holmes barked a laugh, and Watson smiled to himself. The detective was on the mend.

* * *

**Notes:** All done! Thanks for reading! I'm toying with having the briefest of epilogues, but I'll get to that later. Thanks for the wonderful reviews! They really mean a lot!  
As one reviewer pointed out, there WAS a lot of Watson. I really wasn't expecting to write from his perspective for so long. But it was fun! (Thanks for the lovely comments, by the way. :D)


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